If These Walls Could Talk
by dreamsoflove311
Summary: "Tonight, her office—with the low hum of the computer, the single lamp on the corner of her desk, the faint scent of her in the air—tonight, this was his haven."  A collection of scenes that take place in the office of Special Agent Teresa Lisbon.
1. I Must Go On Standing

**A/N: Okay, so this will be a multi chapter story, each chapter a different scene, each scene taking place in Lisbon's office. This first one is kinda angsty and introspective, but they won't all be! I see this as taking place right around where we are in season 4, but these won't be episode tags. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!**

"_After me comes the flood."_

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><p>The attic air was cold. The oppressive kind of cold that seizes the lungs and burns it's way down. The darkness swirled around him in a spiral of ice and flashing lights from the street. Spinning, rolling, black waves crashed in his mind, dragging him under and splashing images onto the backs of his eyelids; young girls dancing, tigers burning, camera lenses glinting from every direction, bleeding smiles that drip, coating him in red… he couldn't be here any more. This dark, cold attic, surrounded with images past and present, superimposed over each other to create a morbid tableau of what his future held.<p>

He pushed off the chair, turned his back on the window, on the lonely makeshift bed—fled the open and dusty air of his attic hideaway—tonight it offered him the wrong kind of solitude. His leather couch would be better, he could lie there and repress this flood of emotion; he could set the worn cushions as a barricade against the sweeping tide of evil he was continuously surrounded by these days. The bullpen would be safe.

The journey down the stairs, through the dark and deserted halls was a blur—strange for a man who always saw everything with clarity. He made his unseeing way past desks, abandoned in these late evening hours, only the emergency lights illuminating his path. Flopping onto his back on the familiar material he attempted to blink the haze of darkness from his eyes, but the bullpen was full of shadows. Creeping over desks, and through doorways, and around corners. Reaching tendrils to wrap around his limbs, pulling him apart at the seams. The room was empty and gaping, it spun around him, spun him with it, fast, dizzy, sick, too much. The darkness was everywhere, the bullpen was just as oppressive as the attic, and so empty, a vast ocean of black. He was drowning in the ruins of his life, in his falsehoods, in his anger and pain and regret, in his failure. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his coherent mind, he recognized that he was probably having a panic attack and hated the control it robbed from him—control over his own body, his own breath.

He rolled off the couch, hands and knees hitting the floor with a muffled thud, fingers curling into claws against the hardwood; he struggled to control his jagged breath. He could feel the sweat dotting his forehead. It was so dark, all around him, inside of him, too dark. It wasn't right here either, this wasn't safe—he couldn't breathe here. He needed to move, needed to breathe, crawled forward a few inches, struggled to his feet. His legs shook beneath him, a tenuous support for all the weight on his shoulders. Hands outstretched before him, he stumbled like a blind man towards the elusive glow of a light hidden behind closed blinds. And maybe he was blind. Blinded by the encroaching darkness that shadowed his actions, the blackness he invited into his soul with every lie and every trick, over and over. The course of vengeance he followed was dragging him down into the very oblivion he struggled to extinguish.

In his desperation to defeat the darkness, he was becoming it.

His fingers touched glass and metal and he pulled on the handle, stumbled through the doorway, forced himself to take a breath, and then another. The soft glow of lamplight that now bathed him was slowly burning away the cloud of gloom shrouding his vision. Strange that out in the open he felt trapped, robbed of air. But here, in this small room, enclosed by these glass walls, he could breathe.

He blinked to clear away the last of the shadows, swiped a hand against the clammy wetness on his face, and looked around. He was alone; she'd gone home for the night. That was good. She hadn't witnessed him in his weak and panicked state, hadn't seen the way he needed her in order to breathe. Just the mere suggestion of her presence battled away the pain, her lingering essence banished his demons, her light dispelling his dark.

He didn't always need her like this, so desperately, but tonight was a bad one. One of the nights where he lost the firm grip on his emotions and got swept away in the tide of madness that was forever lapping at his heels. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment she'd become his salvation, but become it she had. And tonight, her office—with the low hum of the computer, the single lamp on the corner of her desk, the faint scent of her in the air—tonight, this was his haven. No taunting voices, no smiles bled into walls, no madness could touch him here. Not here, not in her office.

He wrapped his arms around himself, holding together the broken pieces of his soul, and curled himself onto her couch. Thoughts of her were his life vest, keeping him afloat in the murky waters of his oblivion. He pressed his face into her cushions, no longer cold, and let the peace of resting in a space that was hers steal over him. The world spun to a stop, garish images fading from his mind, and he could breathe.


	2. And Now I'm Feeling

**A/N: Second installment, another moment in the office of Lisbon! This time it's Cho's point of view. :) Hope you enjoy! Oh, also, I don't own The Mentalist...Yes, I know you're shocked. **

"_You got your hands over your ears,_

_you got your mouth running on."_

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><p>"She's not here."<p>

From his position in the doorway, Cho surveyed the scene before him: papers and case files strewn over almost every available surface, take out coffee cups overflowing from the trash bin, and Jane, perched in the corner of the couch, balancing teacup and saucer on his knee.

"Where is she?" Cho stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him.

"Oh, you know, off searching for the guilty and doling out justice." A careless flip of the hand and a trademark grin accompanied the words.

"She went to talk to Fitz, didn't she?"

"Mmhmm." He internally rolled his eyes; Jane could have just said that in the first place. Nothing was ever simple with this man.

"I thought you were going with her for that."

"Meh, nothing to see there, he's not guilty—she didn't need me, and besides I'm much more productive here."

"Yeah, you're really making some great headway with depleting the tea stash."

"Ahh yes. Well, this is a new blend. Your friend Summer recommended it to me last time she came in, ginger and orange, it's really very good."

Mention of Summer caught his attention, just as Jane had intended. Well, he wouldn't give the consultant the satisfaction of showing interest.

"That's nice." Simple, monotone, no expression…yeah, he could play this game. He watched as Jane took a slow sip from the mug, closing his eyes in apparent appreciation.

"Did you know that she is quite the tea connoisseur? Makes something of a habit of finding good flavors. She has good taste—favors the classic flavors mixed with a little bit of exotic spice." He hadn't known Summer and Jane had been talking when she'd been coming in to the station, but apparently they had, quite a bit. He really should watch out for that. Summer was feisty enough, god forbid Jane put any more ideas into her head. "She really is an interesting woman, don't you think, Cho? It's no small wonder that she's captured the attention of every male agent she's encountered here…and some of the female ones as well." The consultant gave a roguish wink, which Cho ignored, he was struggling with his indifferent façade…he would not let Jane break him. He would not. "Although, that same enigmatic quality is what makes her so good at her job."

"She's not hooking anymore, Jane." The terse words slipped out without thought, arms crossing in defense…then he noticed the glint in Jane's eyes. Oops.

"Yes, I know. I was, of course, speaking about her job as an informant; she is quite invaluable. Thought it's interesting how defensive you are about her employment situation."

"No. It's really not." Cho took an instinctive step away from the look Jane was giving him. He'd seen what happened to people on the receiving end of that look. He watched warily as Jane set his mug and saucer on the coffee table then folded his hands in his lap.

"You know, Cho, if you need—"

"No, Jane. I don't need anything. I don't need to talk, and I don't need you to do anything. In fact, the last thing I need is for you to meddle in my relationship with Summer."

Jane's smile was all teeth, like a predator.

"I was going to ask whether you needed me to give Lisbon a message for you when she got back, but it seems your mind is on other things, so…"

He had known he shouldn't engage with Jane, he always managed to get something out of you, and it was always the very _last _thing you wanted to deal with. He knew he'd already walked into the trap too far to extricate himself, and any more movement was going to further ensnare him. He really should walk away now…but sometimes Jane could break even him, Kimball Cho, the stoic, strong, master interrogator.

"No, Jane, no message, you know she hates to get case-related information secondhand. Besides, you should be off gathering your own information instead of hiding out in the boss' office. Speaking of which, why _are_ you in here anyways?"

"Well, who else's office can I "hide out in"—as you put it? Wainright has a great couch, but he would never be open to my continuous presence and onslaught of brilliant ideas."

It wasn't very often that Cho felt he had an advantage over Jane; this was just too good an opportunity to pass up. Jane wanted to talk about women? Wanted to tease him about relationships? Well, fine. Game on.

"Yeah, that's true. Wainright would never want you lounging around in his office. It's funny, you know, at one time I would have said the same thing about Lisbon. I wonder why she lets you lay around in here all the time, subjecting herself to—what did you call it? Your "continuous presence" right?" Victory was so sweet; he could see the humor leeching out of Jane's eyes and the defensiveness creeping in. Just a few more well constructed comments… "She must really like you to put up with the way you invade her space all the time…it could even be speculated that _you _like spending time with _her._"

There was nothing Jane feared more then becoming attached to people again. He liked to play at the idea that he was a lone wolf, that he needed no one, that anyone who got close to him got hurt. Maybe it was wrong of him to poke at the consultant's weak spots, but it was so rare they were ever exposed, and Jane always did it to everybody else. But Jane wouldn't break under Cho's hastily constructed attack. He did what Cho had neglected to do. He walked away.

"I'm feeling the sudden urge to make a fresh pot of tea, how about you? I think I'll just go and freshen this up." The consultant stood swiftly, grabbing his teacup from the table. "Good talk, Cho." Jane breezed past him and out the door, sunny smile still firmly in place.

Cho felt a distinct sense of foreboding, teasing Jane usually came back to bite a person in the ass, and he'd done more than tease, he'd poked at the one thing in the world Jane had a weak spot for…Lisbon. Oh well, it had been worth it; he'd gotten Jane to drop the Summer topic, hadn't he? Victory. Sure, his win may come at the cost of some unimaginable Jane revenge scheme that would befall him when he least expected it, but he'd beaten Jane for this brief moment and he was going to relish it.

The clatter of blinds and the snick of the door opening brought him out of his reveling. Lisbon was back and headed for her desk looking slightly harried, he wondered if maybe she'd encountered Jane in the hallway.

"Hey, boss." Lisbon jumped and spun towards where he stood by the couch.

"Cho! Geez, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Sorry, boss."

"What are you doing in my office? You know I hate it when people sit in here while I'm gone."

"Jane was just in here."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, you just said you hated it when people—"

"I know what I said, Cho."

"But it's okay for Jane to—"

"Cho, did you need something? Because I need you and Rigsby to go and pick up Helen Carter; Jane says we need to take a closer look at her alibi."

"Right. On it, boss."

"Great. And send Jane back in here on your way out."

"Sure." He left the office, once again mentally rolling his eyes. He found it kind of amusing that both Jane and Lisbon confronted the mention of any type of relationship between the two of them in the exact same way: by dismissing it completely. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head that was pointing out the similarity to the way he treated any mention of his relationship with Summer. The little voice sounded suspiciously like Jane.


	3. All That I Am

**A/N: Next installment! This one is Jane/Lisbon focused, and the case discussed is one that I made up, it's not from an actual episode. Hope you enjoy! :)**

"_I need your grace _

_to remind me_

_to find my own."_

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><p>Jane sat with his head tilted back and let Lisbon's office chair spin him in circles and watched the bland cream colored ceiling swirl above him, a pale and blessedly blank canvas. Sometimes his eyes played tricks on him, showed him walls marred with blood red smiles, though in reality they had never been stained. But not today, today had been a good day, overall. Today they had rescued a little girl and her mother before her father's rage had destroyed them. Lisbon was with them now—what remained of the Salter family—Carol and little Sarah.<p>

He wouldn't admit it, but he'd struggled with this case. The thought that a father could become so twisted that he could want to destroy his family… It made him angry that he could not discern whether the man reminded him of himself, or if nothing could be further from the truth. Just like Don Salter, he'd destroyed his family…but the thought of his own two hands being the ones to cause the destruction…it made him sick. This man had tried to get rid of the one thing in the world Jane yearned for more than anything, his wife and child. And for what? To hide the evidence of his murderous ways?

Lisbon's team had burst into the Salter's apartment that afternoon, and Jane knew that the mental snapshot of that moment was going to linger in his mind for a while—Carol kneeling on the ground, clutching her sobbing daughter to her chest, her husband standing behind her with his gun pressed to her head. Don Salter had turned to look at the agents crowding around him, simply looked at them. No tears, no fear, no remorse, no nothing—just cool, hard resolve.

"I have to." That's what he'd said, "I have to." As far as Jane was concerned, that man deserved the bullet Rigsby had put in him.

He heard the distinctive steps of Lisbon approaching her office and continued to spin, staring up at the ceiling, preparing himself for her wrath—she hated it when he adjusted her chair. He heard the door open, felt her eyes following him as he spun in the chair she'd ordered him to stay out of, waited for her reprimand.

"You're not him, you know."

His feet descended to halt his circuitous motion and his head came up from the back of the chair. She stood behind him in the doorway, but he didn't turn to face her. It wasn't often she managed to surprise him this way. She was almost exactly echoing his own thoughts, thoughts he had thought he'd been concealing quite well—apparently not from her though.

"Who?" He wouldn't cave that easily; perhaps she'd drop it once she realized he wouldn't engage in the discussion.

"Don Salter." He heard her step closer. "I know you were struggling with this case. I know that you feel like the two of you are similar, in that you are both responsible for the destruction of your families. But you're not similar. You are nothing like that man."

He still wouldn't face her, he was unsure of what emotions she might find exposed in his eyes.

"Ahh, well, this is an interesting attempt at insight into my mind, Lisbon."

"I heard what you said, to Salter. I heard what you said when he was being loaded into the ambulance."

Jane realized that his fingers were aching and looked down to find them curled into fists on his lap. He hadn't meant for anyone to hear those words—a confession of sorts—and to think that _she_ had heard them…

"You said, 'How could you be so selfish? You've lost your family, are you happy now? You are going to live with your failure for the rest of your worthless life. You—'"

"Alright, Lisbon, enough. You heard every word I said, I get it." He couldn't stand to hear her repeating the last four words he'd spoken to Don Salter, _'You should hate yourself.' _ It had been a reminder to himself, a mantra he'd carried with him since the night his arrogance had cost him his family. He knew he should hate himself, knew he deserved his family's hatred for failing to protect them…but Lisbon…he didn't think he could stand to hear her tell him that. Not her.

Her fingers encircled his arm; she spun the chair, and him with it, to bring them face-to-face. He lifted his eyes to hers slowly, careful to temper the emotion in them.

"You are a good man, Jane." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Deeply flawed, perhaps, but you are good. And no matter what you think, Red John killed your family. Not you."

Her hand on his arm was warm, and her eyes were honest. He may never agree that the blame for his family's death wasn't his, but hearing these words, from her, on this day, he felt an absolution settle over him. Instinctively his brain tried to shy away from it, but he was tethered to the feeling by her small hand on his arm. Abruptly he was absurdly grateful for her presence, for her words, her support, for her constant defense of him—even against himself. He stood and gripped her elbow, used it to pull her against his body. He felt her stiffen, the way she leaned away from his unusually close contact, but she didn't pull away. She stood in the circle of his arms radiating confusion.

"Lisbon, I have to." The words that had seemed so abhorrent to him earlier, Salter's words, felt perfectly appropriate now. He had to. He had to hug her, had to thank her, had to show her that her words meant something to him. He felt her soften against him, felt her arms snake around his waist, felt the tug of her fists on the back of his jacket. She tipped her head to rest her forehead on his chest, and he let his face press into her hair. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd embraced anyone this way. "Thank you, Lisbon."


End file.
